


stellar collision

by Pandemic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandemic/pseuds/Pandemic
Summary: He turns sixteen in front of his bathroom mirror with a chill across his skin, goosebumps on his arms, and a burn across his sternum. A wet laugh bubbles up from his mouth, too close to tears, as he watches avidly as ink pours across his skin. He thumbs the mark, presses into it, and gasps when he feels his stomach twist and a feeling he can’t shake that his soulmark is somewhere out there doing the same."I loved them instantly. It’s remarkable. Where was that love before? Where did you acquire it from? The way it is suddenly there, total and complete, as sudden as grief but in reverse, is one of the wonders of being human.”
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 314





	stellar collision

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely unbeta-ed, so all sins are my own.

Tony is the first Stark to be born with skin that isn’t ice to the touch. It’s an old story, one Howard likes to claim is folklore even though he knows the truth. It says that Stark men are made of iron and in birth they feel as cold as the metal they come from. He knows the heart of it, knows in medical notes discreetly buried that the attending physician at his own birth had noted how cold he was. Knows that some say it’s linked to Stark men never being burdened with a soulmark. Yet when he holds his son for the first time, he feels nothing but warmth transfer through skin-to-skin contact, and he stares down at this creation of his that even upon its first breaths defies him. 

“Disappointing.” He says, words monotone and voice flat, before handing his progeny back to his still sweating wife. He wipes his hands on his suit trousers, and spots the nurse who stands in the corner of the room track the movement. He treats her to a grin, one that is not kind or pleasant, and she shrinks into herself even more.

He doesn’t speak to his wife, a trembling young thing, as he leaves the room. Stark men are cold and made of iron, and this one that is warm and flushed will not do.

* * *

Tony is nine when he runs away for the first time. He packs himself a rucksack mainly full of Red Vines and Asimov, swings it onto his small shoulders before nearly falling backward with the weight of it. He pulls it firmer onto his back, ignoring the smarting of his arm. If he looks hard, he can see the imprint of Howard’s fingers round his wrist like a brand, sees the indentation of Howard’s club ring.

Tony tries not to look too hard.

He sneaks, soft and silent in the way only a child can, down through the garage and out into the darkness. He wonders whether Howard would have even stopped him if they had crossed paths, or whether he’d celebrate finally getting rid of the one burden he will not bear.

It’s cold and crisp, the fresh air burns Tony’s lungs and makes his eyes water. He’s not sure how long he walks until he comes to the front gate of his fathers property. He stares up at the wrought-iron gates that mock him with their height and immovability, and he ferociously wishes he could fly, could soar above until Howard was nothing but a speck on his vision.

He hears crunching footsteps behind him, and knows better but to look, “Hi Jarvis” he says around the lump in his throat, blinking through the tears in his eyes, the humiliation he feels coursing through his veins.

If he’s really quiet, he can almost feel Howard’s laughter, _what a failure_ , he’d crow, _you can’t even get running away right_.

“Come, Anthony. Come back to the house and I’ll make you hot cocoa in the kitchens.” Jarvis says, unflinchingly British - soothing and stoic and sad at the same time. And if Tony notices that even Jarvis doesn’t call the sprawling mansion a home, he doesn’t say anything. They both know there is nothing in those walls that suggest it deserves the title.

* * *

The one conversation he ever has with his mother, Maria Stark, is carved into his memory like a hammer across marble. He’s twelve and late to dinner having been caught up with Petroski and Hadfield, with vivid technicolour robot dreams. He’s happy and it’s a feeling he’s not well acquainted with, as he bounds downstairs to find whatever Jarvis has left warm for him. He’s halfway munching through the cooked ham straight from the hot plate when he freezes, realises he’s not alone, and turns.

“Hi Maria.” He says, because she, like Howard, has not only been deemed unworthy of the namesake of mother, but probably wouldn’t know what to do with such a title if she was granted it. She’s beautiful in a way full of melancholy and heartache, in a way that’s fragile and soft. Only her age betrays her, the slow and violent ravaging of time.

“Hello Anthony,” she replies, voice reedy and thin, “what have you been up to.”

It’s not phrased like a question, he thinks perhaps she doesn’t have the energy to say it as such. She’s going through the motions, without any real connection. She doesn’t know of the circuit boards he has taken apart upstairs, she doesn’t know that the small remote control bike she gifted him one year is in bits and bolts across his floor. 

“Just studying.” He says, not caring to elucidate further, letting the awkward air settle around them like a cloak, “grabbing a snack.”

He chomps in happy silence, taking shelter in the knowledge that kids his age usually don’t understand unspoken words, nervous tension. He can play for oblivious, and she doesn’t know enough about him to see through it. She sighs, a long and weary thing, reaching to push her greying hair back past her ear, when he sees it. A bouquet of flowers sprawl across her left wrist, and he has to smother a gasp. 

He knows two things. The first is the irrefutable fact that Howard does not have a soulmark, he wears that fact like a badge of honour, that upon his sixteenth birthday, the day of the change, there was no burning in his soul. The second is that (for what it’s worth) not everyone is born with one - and in fact it is said you can love without one even if the love tastes different - but a couple where the balance is tipped and the scales don’t weigh the same will make for an unhappy marriage. It’s too much of a hill to climb, too much history to manage. These two facts scrabble for purchase in his mind, jostle his very heart for answers. 

He watches the woman who gave birth to him spot him looking, and for a moment her eyes become so unbearably fond and broken he has to look away and let the silence speak for him.

She speaks first, “They are called chrysanthemums, or _I Crisantemi_. In Italy, they mean sadness, to mourn.”

Tony doesn’t reply, too scared that the moment will break and shatter into a million pieces in front of him.

“He’s dead.” Her words are blunt, brutal, ripped from her lungs on a gasp of air. “He’s dead. And I am not. We don’t - we don’t get happy endings, Anthony. Not for us. Not from this. Not from him.” He doesn’t need her to expand on who she means, “Do not ever tell your father if you get a soulmark. Everything is currency to him, and this,” she strokes long delicate fingers across the slivering petals and Tony hides a shiver, “this is your highest price. The only price you will always be willing to pay.”

Without thinking he reaches out, grabs hold of her hand with small, grubby fingers. Her mouth flutters round a smile like she’s forgotten what it feels like, before holding tight enough to break bone.

* * *

There are varying different stories of the soulmarks, lore that changes in each culture, stories that Jarvis sneaks to Anthony amongst the folds of his overcoat. He reads them avidly when the rest of the house has gone to bed, hides them away amongst Werther and Austen and other books he knows his father will never lift from their dusty origins in the library. Howard does not care for what he doesn’t understand, and love is chief amongst the things he remains unflinchingly ignorant on. 

He knows that Cayce suggests that all souls are born androgynous, that they halve upon separation from God and the marks are placed upon each part to call the other home again. He knows that Greek mythology calls them a kiss from Zeus, that the Chinese believe the matchmaker god Yue Lao creates souls together and when they are ripped apart leave them with matching scars that can mend and make them whole again. It is all achingly romantic and idealistic and nauseatingly perfect. It's so far away from science and order and math it may as well be in another language.

Tony loves every flawed beautiful bit of it.

* * *

Tony’s fifteen, eleven months, twenty nine days, 23 hours old, and he’s frightened. He’s home for a break after his first year exams, weary and sleep-deprived.

He sits, completely naked, in front of the bathroom mirror. He’d pulled a chair up an hour ago, because even though he knows the change has never been documented to occur before midnight on your sixteenth birthday, he still doesn’t want to miss it, just in case. He held a motorbike manual in one hand, having skimmed the pages without anything sinking in, before giving it up as pointless and condemning himself to staring at his skin. The seconds drip past like treacle, the minutes sliding into one another as slow as he’s ever felt. It leaves him with his thoughts for too long. If nothing happens, it means he’s alone. If nothing happens, it means he’s unlovable. If nothing happens, it means he is his father’s son. And that thought terrifies him.

He turns sixteen in front of his bathroom mirror with a chill across his skin, goosebumps on his arms, and a burn across his sternum. A wet laugh bubbles up from his mouth, too close to tears, as he watches avidly as ink pours across his skin. It’s bold and black and can’t be missed as it carves across his left collarbone and then shimmers and settles up against the hollow of his throat. Three conjoined spirals stare back at him in beautiful defiance, warm his skin and makes him feel alight. He skims his fingers over them, and idly wonders if his other half is somewhere out there doing the same. His are jet black and solid, which according to Cayce means the half to his whole is already out there, has already experienced the change. He thumbs the top spiral, presses into it, and gasps when he feels his stomach twist and a mirror feeling that he can’t shake that his soulmark is doing the same.

He stays up long and late, into the small hours of the morning, looking at his reflection and settling in the knowledge that he was someone deserving of this most historical and ancient love.

When he trips downstairs the next morning, soft and happy, Howard is waiting for him.

“Well?” He asks, voice gruff, and Tony doesn’t have to think twice for what it means. He spares not a second to shake his head, hates the smirk that Howard fits to his face in response.

“Good.” Is all his father says, clapping his hand across Tony’s shoulders who hides a flinch under the weight, “No distractions.”

Tony knows then, that he’ll lay waste to this world before he bares his soulmark to anyone but it’s intended.

* * *

He’s sixteen and drink is colouring his vision as he sits at the long oak table. He hates Labour Day, always has. Only Howard Stark could take a day meant for celebration and family and a signal to the end of summer, and warp it into something different. Something with teeth and vicious. Howard likes to use the time to schmooze, invite board members and investors over whilst Tony and Maria play the parts of a loving family to perfection. Tony’s always surprised no one sees through the hollow facade, it’s thin enough to shatter. 

Howard puts him beside Tiberius Stone and tells him to play nice in a whisper made through gritted teeth and a hand clenched round his shoulder that makes Tony ache. 

Tiberius is cynical and witty and hates everyone. Tony likes him instantly, enjoys his hatred for what it is, honesty (and how he’ll laugh in years to come for ever thinking Ty honest). He smiles at Tiberius, a small and perilous thing barely deserving of the name, and Tiberius doesn’t call him out on it. In that instant, they are friends, if for a time. Two products of broken upbringings uniting in misery for as long as their leashes will allow them. 

* * *

Sarah Rogers is named their new cook one day in a cold New York January. The frost creeps up Tony’s bedroom window as he stares out to the front gate. She arrives in a whirlwind, nursing a gasping old Chevrolet truck up through the archway and along the track to the house. It wheezes and groans as it stumbles down to the back entrance of the house, breaking through the overwhelming quiet like a hot knife through butter. Tony watches curiously as the delicate Sarah Rogers steps out the passenger seat, stares up at her new household, and grins. It takes Tony by surprise, the smile is one he has never seen before. It’s unguarded and happy and wide, and she opens her mouth to say something Tony can’t catch to her companion opening the drivers side. He catches a glimpse of well muscled arms, long fingers on large hands.

The soulmark on his collarbone is scalding, and his stomach twists when he looks down on Steven Rogers for the first time. Broad shouldered, cream skinned and golden haired, he’s gorgeous in a way that’s as easy as breathing. There’s something sits behind his ear to tell him this man is important, pushes his heart into double time.

He takes the back passage stairs two at a time, jumps down the last one to avoid the creak. Tony’s not sure why he does so, he’s always been friendly with those that work within the walls of Stark Manor, but never felt this all-encompassing need and desire to introduce himself press against his lungs, sing against his heart. In his haste he arrives almost too quickly by the kitchen, skids to a stop just shy of the doorway, and waits there with a thundering heart and his lungs in his throat.

“What do you think, Stevie?” The woman, _Sarah_ , speaks first. They haven’t spotted him yet. There’s a thread to her voice that speaks of another country, seeped in history of a place she once must have called home. If Tony could think straight he could probably place it, but his brain is scrambled, stuck on static.

“Whaddya mean, what do I think?” Steven rumbles in reply. It’s like boulders crashing, like a wave breaking across Tony’s calves, foaming around his ankles. He wants to swim in it, wants to feel it against his ears, wants to hear it over and over again. Tony _wants and wants and wants_. “I’m so proud of you, ma. After everything - I'm just glad to see you working again.”

The deep voice is achingly fond, soft and happy. It reverberates around Tony’s brain, settling at last like a cat, curling against his prefrontal cortex where science and computers and all the good stuff lives.

“Well I’m glad.” Sarah says, “I hope that you’ll feel comfortable enough to come visit now when you are stateside, and not just end up on Bucky’s couch or in that old apartment. It can’t be good for your back, Stevie. Now go fetch the rest of my stuff in, would you?”

“ _Ma_.” Stevens voice whines as the sound of soft footfalls accompany it, signalling his departure. There is good natured humour behind it, and this conversation feels well worn, like an old coat, like the jokes Tony and Jarvis might occasionally have if they know Howard is out on business. Tony feels utterly out of his depth, and like he’s committing the biggest trespass to even be listening to a conversation so clearly not meant for him.

“You can come out now darling.” Sarah’s voice is clear, cuts through the cacophony of Tony’s thoughts. He’s not spared a minute to panic, for she steps through before he can think to hide. Her eyes widen in surprise before she settles, smooths her sundress with slightly shaky hands, and smiles wide.

“You must be young Master Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Tony.” He throws out, unable to stop the words before they stutter out his mouth, “Just Tony, please. Or. Or at least, Anthony. Anything but Master Stark. Or sir.” His eyes grow wide in panic when she looks as though she’ll argue the point, but she stops, graces him with a small grin.

Sarah Rogers is diminutive, she barely comes up to his shoulders. Her figure would look frail on another, but she merely glows. She’s spun like golden thread, yet looks wired by steel. It’s like god poured all her love into her frame but stopped before others could get too jealous. Like anymore and those around her would be frightened of the power she wielded. “Anthony it is, then. Could you be so kind, and let me know where I might find Mr Jarvis? He was going to show me where to find everything. But I admit, we are a little early. I didn’t think Steve would be around to help me move.”

“Jarvis? He’ll be on his way back from his walk with Ana.” Tony replies, “let me show you.”

Ms Rogers is quick, hasty in her reply, “No I couldn’t possibly trouble you.”

“I insist.” He laces his voice with iron, holds firm, even if he smiles. He wants to help, he _needs_ to help. _If only because he needs to be around when Steve comes back inside._

It doesn’t take long to show Sarah Rogers to the kitchen, and she watches him with a smile tinged with sadness as he walks her through everything from the hot plate to the walk in freezer.

“You are quite comfortable around the housework quarters.” Sarah muses, voice easy.

“Yeah well, I’m a curious kid.” He shrugs, scratches the back of his neck with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel. He can tell Ms Rogers doesn’t buy it.

“Ma, where do you want this thing? It weighs a ton!” Steven Rogers voice bursts into the quiet room before he does. Tony can’t stop the way his entire body _shifts_ , twitches and turns to the source, like a plant seeking the sun. He misses Sarah Rogers watching him, watching the doorway, with eyes that know too much and betray too little, because suddenly Steve is there and Tony can’t think to a time he wasn’t.

In the flesh Steven is _breathtaking_. Golden beauty painted with a Celtic brush, full lips and flushed freckled skin. Tony’s soulmark burns like a house fire against his throat, pulses there like a fluttering butterfly. Steven gasps, and when their eyes connect he swears, low and Gaelic, arms empty. There’s a crashing sound, somewhere, in Tony’s periphery that comes to him like it’s underwater. They stare at each other, panting like they’ve run a marathon, and Tony knows _now_ what Greek mythology meant by ground shaking. He’s not sure if he is still stood on solid ground, can’t look away to check. Steven’s eyes are two aquamarine pools that sparkle and wink and beckon him like a siren to a watery grave. He’s helpless, takes a faltering step forward, hand trembling out like a newborn lamb. _Want want want_ thunders through his veins like a galloping stallion and how can anyone _stand it_?

“Well.” A voice breaks through the haze, huffing a laugh. Steven yanks his gaze away, and it’s like dawn, like a dam breaking. Suddenly Tony’s aware they are stood together, not even a foot apart, breathing heavy around the mess of an industrial food mixer in bits across the marble floor. 

It’s Sarah Rogers, hands propped on her hips, mouth framed around a laugh, eyes sparkling. “This certainly explains a lot.” She says, by way of nothing, and laughs herself stupid.

* * *

“You.” Steven speaks first, and later Tony will learn that this is part of who he is. A born leader, incapable of anything but forging ahead with blind and beloved optimism that hides a multitude of worries and insecurities. 

“You.” Tony replies, breathless and near silent. He thumbs fingers absently over the changed mark, noting the flesh feels tender. He watches Steven track the motion with a heady sort of power, a frisson of excitement course through him that feels like being in a hot air balloon above the clouds.

They are alone now, Sarah excusing herself quickly, brushing her fingers over Steven’s shoulders with a firm squeeze, offering them the little privacy she could. 

“If - if my being who I am. Is an issue for you, I can understand and I won’t ask you for anything back.” Steven’s words are bitten out, awkward and scared little things that seem so at odds with the man before him.

“No.” Tony is quick to reply, coughs and recalibrates before continuing, “sorry, no. No it’s not an issue. I - I can’t believe you’re real.” The last words are barely above a whisper, and _oh_ he feels Steven’s tender smile across his shoulders like a balm. He thinks now, that this is as happy as he has ever been. That is, until Steven takes Tony’s hand in his, holds it close.

“Real.” He says, clear and sure. It wraps around Tony’s heart, holds him close, “I didn’t think I would meet you. Or - if I did - I didn’t think I’d put it together. There are marks who don’t know, who don’t notice, for weeks or months after they’ve met. Most don’t have such a - such a reaction.” 

“You mean most don’t break something? How utterly boring.” Tony dares to tease, wants to eat up the delighted laugh Steven grants him with in response.

“I definitely owe ma a new mixer that’s for sure.”

They stare down at their joined hands, late summer evening light filtering into the room to contribute to the warmth Tony feels flooding him from the inside out. It feels like he’s been hibernating, like he’s been carving out this space inside himself he didn’t even realise especially for Steven. The silence sits over them for a minute like a cloud.

“I bet you didn’t think it would ever be someone like me.” Steven says, timid and self-deprecating.

“No.” Tony answers truthfully, watches the hurt glinting in Steven’s eyes too quick for him to mask it, “you are so much better than what I expected.”

Steven’s smile is like the summer solstice sun. 

“I don’t know what I want to ask first.” Steven confesses, “I find I want to know everything about you. What did you think when you first got your soulmark. Who is your best friend. What’s your favourite hobby. Your favourite sports team. What do you -“ Tony stops his train of thought with a finger against Steven’s lips. They part on a sigh, an exhale of breath that flutters against Tony’s hand and makes him shiver.

“Surprise. Rhodey. Computers. Don’t have one. And slow down! What’s the rush?” Tony laughs, moves his hand back and catches Steven’s eyes tracking the motion in his throat with hooded eyes. The heat is near stifling between them, Tony’s sure that just a spark from them would have the kindling banked at the hearth of the fireplace ablaze. 

“Don’t have a favourite sports team? Great, it’s now the New York Yankee’s, no argument.” Steve jokes before his tone turns somber, “and I suppose I rush because. Because well, that’s maybe a good way of telling you I serve in the United States Military, and I ship back out for another tour tomorrow. I didn’t know - I didn’t think -“ Steven starts, before exhaling on a sad note, “I didn’t know I was getting to meet you today.”

 _Getting to meet you_. Like meeting Anthony Stark was some precious gift. Tony hears the far off noise of the front door slamming, of the dogs barking to signal the masters return. If he listens hard enough, he can hear the trademark Howard Stark thunder as he storms down hallways and tornadoes into empty rooms like a hurricane. He’ll be looking for Tony, soon, if only to have someone to sit in his shadow as he sips scotch and fingers blueprints, to whisper ideas in his ears for him to steal and stamp as his own.

“My father is home and he - he won’t approve. He doesn’t think I have a mark.” And Tony knows, knows that this is a story he will have to share, one day, between whispers and affirmations and happiness, but it’s not a tale for now. Not when he’s so incandescently happy he vibrates with it, “I have to go.”

“I know.” Steven says, because he probably does. This bond, this mark, this shared soul that lies between them is more than just inked swirls against Tony’s collarbone. It’s an extra breath of air in Tony’s lungs, it’s an extra rush of blood in Tony’s capillaries. “It’s not to be a long tour - I should be back soon. But - write to me?”

Tony looks round the kitchen with unseeing eyes, rakes through drawers until he eventually stumbles across a pen, and spins back around into Steve’s waiting arms. He writes his college address across Steven’s skin, writes his mobile number there too, the ink dark against the green veins. “I’ll be back at college in three days.” He explains, not having to further suggest the words exchanged between them are safer there. Howard can’t touch them, taint them and own them as he does every other aspect of Tony.

They stand in each other’s space for a time, stretch the minutes out like warm toffee, each unwilling to take a step back. It’s like all the time Tony’s spent as a me is secondary, has merely been preparation for the new age of being a we. He finds himself utterly reluctant to part with it even a second earlier than he has to.

“ANTHONY.” He winces as he hears Howard’s voice roar, knows he must go else face the wrath of Howard Stark two scotches in. But as he stares into Steven’s eyes, he finds he’d suffer far worse fates than that if it meant finding himself here.

“You should go. _I_ should go. But... I look forward to your letters, Anthony.” And the name that sounds like a curse from his fathers lips sounds like a prayer from Steven’s, as he takes Tony’s hand and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. It’s a dry, chapped, chaste and quick thing, yet Tony has to stifle a gasp like some old Victorian madam. Powerless to do anything but nod like a marionette doll, he goes to leave the room, taking one last look back to commit his mark to memory, before taking the stairs two at a time.

Later, when Howard spends an hour berating him for his failures, he has to stifle the grin that stutters around his face. He thinks Howard knows it too, cutting his rant short to tell him to get out of his sight, utterly discombobulated by this exuberant son of his.

* * *

When he finally gets sweet and utter relief in the form of retreating back to MIT, he tells himself he’s excited to see Rhodey. He tells himself it’s unlikely a letter will have made it to him already, and that he should not get his hopes up.

It doesn’t stop his heart soaring when he sees a small envelope, slightly crushed, in his personal mailbox. He tells himself it might not be Steven. But no one writes to Tony. His name and address sprawls across the front in chicken script, slanted like the writer spelled it out in a hurry. He holds the letter close to his heart, rushes to his room, and closes the door with excitement wrapping around his lungs like a vice.

_Dearest Tony,_

_I hope I can call you that. Dearest. I’ve only just met you, but I know you can be nothing but dear to me. I’m writing this sat in the front seat of my ma’s old Chevvy, still sat in your driveway. I should be packing, I should go home, but I’m afraid all these feelings and wishes I have will spill out onto the road if I don’t write them down._

_What to tell you? My name is Steven Grant Rogers and I was born on the 4th July 1967. I grew up in Brooklyn, and Bucky - he’s my best friend - will tell you I’m the most stubborn son of a bitch you’ve ever met who used to stuff his own shoes with newspaper so he’d appear taller. I probably shouldn’t lead with that, but you’ll find out eventually. I find I want to tell you everything, even my flaws._

_I’m the first of my friends, of my family, to meet their mark. I think my gran and grandfather were intended for each other, but they died before I grew old enough to know them and whenever I bring them up Ma gets terribly sad. I didn’t think it was that big a deal - not really. Thought I’d serve my country first and settle down later. No one told me it was going to feel like this. No one told me about you._

_I hope you are as excited as me, Tony. I know this might be difficult. But I want to find out together with you._

_I hope you feel ready enough to write back to me. And if you are worried about this being private we can think up a nickname for you. I wouldn’t want you to ever feel scared with me._

_~~Forever~~ _

_~~Warmest regards~~ _

_Yours,_

_Steve_

* * *

_Dearest Steve,_

_Of course you can call me dearest. You can call me whatever you want._

_I must be honest and say I don’t know if I deserve your flattery, or your attentions. But thank you for writing to me. Rhodey - or James as he is better known - who is my best friend, was incredibly intrigued when he found out it was from my bond. We’ve spoken often drunkenly about soulmarks, and I admit I have always played the jaded cynic to his sunny romanticism, so you can imagine his surprise when I told him about you._

_Is it always like this? Perhaps you are the wrong person to ask given your admitted lack of knowledge on the subject. But, Steve, I can feel you with me in moments. I sit in the lecture hall and feel you sat by my side, your leg pressed against mine. I can feel your happiness, your frustration, your anger. Do you feel the same? Do you feel how I worry for you? If I think hard enough about holding your hand, will you feel the imprint against your thumbs?_

_It’s a foolish notion, really, and probably the result of my overactive imagination._

_My name is ... well... if we are being anonymous. You know who I am. I was born the 29th of May 1970, and according to rumour the first words my father ever said to me were “Disappointing”. HS is many things, but one he certainly isn’t is a father. I left the house at 15 to study engineering at MIT, and I am currently on track for my dual-honours masters in Engineering and Physics. Jarvis says I want to be a perpetual student, and well, he’s maybe not far off the truth. I feel a bit stupid, now, endless parties and alcohol and college pranks whilst you are risking your life for me our country. It makes me complaining about my mattress being too hard seem utterly trivial._

_What to tell you about me? I find I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what to tell you, what might scare you away. I’m not usually this honest either, but there’s something about spilling it out through ink onto paper that won’t reach you for days that makes it feel slightly anonymous, in a way. Makes it feel like I’m a schoolgirl writing in a diary. I just need to remember this diary is incredibly handsome and is able to read and write back._

_I hope you are safe, wherever you are. I’ve sketched a terrible drawing of my room, to show you where I sit and write to you from. The one and only time I’ve ever used my name to pull rank is choosing this dorm - Maseeh Hall. Can you see Charles River from the window in my sketch? It’s the last thing I look at before I leave to attend classes. If I had a photo of you, then that would be the last thing I look at instead._

_Yours,_

_T_

_P.S. when did you ever have to stuff newspaper in your shoes??? You are about six foot five hundred_

* * *

_Dearest Tony,_

_I’m glad you have a friend like James. I hope his surprise was then support for you. It is... difficult out here. Shared showers make it very hard to hide your mark on me, and some do not like what the darkness of it means. Maybe it’s jealousy, or fear, or sadness. Maybe a combination of all of them. But it doesn’t matter, because I feel your shoulder rock against mine when I need it most. So in answer to your question, yes I feel you too. You must know when you feel my happiness that it means you are not far from my mind._

_I’m sorry to hear about your relationship with your father. But an engineering degree at 15? Doing your masters with dual honours?_ I think you are a marvel, T. _Bucky (who is here also, Ma jokes we are attached at the hip) ribs me endlessly for the copy of Young Mechanic I now have in my keepsake box. There’s a photo of you, and oh, it’s so clear they tried so long with you to get a photo that looks made up. It’s like they forgot they were working with fire, and if I look really close (and yeah, Bucky really makes fun of me for this one) I can see smudge of ... oil? on your cheekbone. Your smirk says you know it’s there, and you don’t care. You look like gunmetal and zircon and motor oil. You look magnificent._

_I want you to tell me anything. You can tell me about your mattress. About your classes. About the party you went to at the weekend. You can definitely tell me about how incredibly handsome you think I am._

_I can’t tell you much. Please trust me that there are things I want to tell you, desperately. I can’t right now. But I can tell you we are safe as we can be, all things as they are. Bucky’s currently cursing up a storm because as part of our endless prank war I put sand in the hood of his jacket and when he flipped it up he got sand everywhere. I’m definitely going to pay for that later._

_I love your sketch, and I’ve tried to draw one of my own. It’s of the rooftop at my old apartment in Brooklyn. It’s not much, four walls and a roof really, but every 4th of July Bucky and I will sit and watch the fireworks with a beer and that’s worth everything else._

_Something might arrive for you from my Ma. She asks after you, by the way. That ‘gorgeous young thing’. She says I’ve got the luck of our Irish ancestors to have found my mark. She worries a little about the future for us, but she jokes that once my mind is set I’m as fixed as an island against the waves and the wind._

_I suppose she’s right (and she’ll be smug right now, somewhere, in the knowledge that I’ve admitted a mother knows best). I am fixed now. You can’t scare me away._

_Yours,_

_Steve_

_P.S. I used to weigh bout 90 pounds soaking wet, you bet I stuffed newspaper in my shoes._

Tony’s wrist deep in wiring and blueprints when a thick letter arrives. It’s heavy, backed with cardboard to prevent it bending. When he turns it upside down the first thing to flutter out onto the floor is the ripped page of a notebook. 

_Anthony,_

_Steve mentioned in his recent letter to me that you’d like a photo of him. He suggested a few he knows I have, but I’ve enclosed two he doesn’t know of, both I think that show him off the best._

_Look after my boy, look after yourself._

_Sincerely,_

_Sarah Rogers_

_P.S. turn over for an easy bake peanut butter chocolate chip cookie recipe._

Eyes wide, Tony reaches into the envelope and pulls out two glossy photos. His first thought is that the print of them must have cost Sarah a fortune, heavy with shimmering ink. Then he catches sight of what the photos hold, and find he can’t think much of anything anymore.

* * *

_Dearest S,_

_The photos from your mother arrived. She says you don’t know of their existence, and I’m so glad she thought to send them to me. You say I’m magnificent? You in military finery, that’s magnificent._

_And you, tiny and laughing against someone else’s shoulders - Bucky? I trace my fingers against your smile and wish it was me that put it there. How pathetic, really. On a different note, you had a hell of a growth spurt. Kudos to Sarah Rogers cooking, if I’ve ever felt guilty for not eating my vitamins and getting a full nights sleep it’s now. I think I’m all out of growing._

_Rhodey says hi. We’ve been friends since I was 16. If you’ll spare my momentary pity party, it’s not often students nearing adulthood want to be friends with a kid who’s age should put him closer to elementary school than elemental physics. But I vomited on his shoes in the back garden of a frat party, and the rest was history. He also wants to meet you, mainly because he’s impressed anyone’s able to slow me down enough to write a letter. I just blew a raspberry at him, I can focus when required shut up Rhodey I can._

_I wanted more time to meet you, properly. I know that’s selfish, when I’ve just come into your life and spun it sideways at a time you probably had everything mapped out. But I wanted more time than a hello in the middle of H’s kitchen._

_Do you get leave for Thanksgiving? Is this how it works? Or will you be staying where you are? I’m staying in halls this year - sometimes I go and see Rhodey but I’ve got lab work that could do with some attention. Anywheres better than the house when H’s had too much Glenfiddich and not enough turkey._

_Your picture is beautiful, I can see why you love the view. I hope you might show me it one day._

_When I was younger, my tutors all told me that learning about soulmarks was for dreamers and romantics. But there’s a science to it, to do with primal drives like scent and heartbeat. Ours lie on the same wavelength, and no matter the distance our hearts will often rest in the same rhythm. Cause and effect. My teachers would hate to see me now. H even more so. If he even had a faint clue I was sat writing to you about soulmarks and beauty, he’d wrestle me back to the house before I could say “schematic”._

_I hope when you read this, you remember the moment you felt me utterly and ridiculously happy and emotional, and know it was because I was writing to you._

_Yours,_

_T_

* * *

If he takes a deep breath, Thanksgiving becomes nothing more than an ugly memory in his mind.

He can still taste the stench of Howard’s alcohol breath, warm against his face. Still feel the spittle that hangs off his lips, that’s spat against his chin. He can feel the imprint of Howard’s old club ring against his cheek. There’s an image of Maria risen, a rolling gasp rattling her lungs. An image of Obie slapping a hand against Tony’s shoulder, moving to joke and jest and move Howard away from violence in the only way he knows how. Talk of Tony’s future value, his golden goose status. Howard understands numbers and money well enough to quiet down, and Tony masks the flinch at his knuckles curling once into a fist before letting go.

It’s no difference to many other Thanksgivings they have had. And yet.

Dusk falls around Tony’s shoulders like a shroud, sadness quick to follow. He should of taken up Rhodey’s offer of a Thanksgiving with him, but he’d stupidly thought the Stark house might have been a reprieve. Might of thought that the grades he was tracking this quarter were enough to ease the endless assault Howard waged against the son that would never be good enough. It was a horrible dance they played, Tony always striving for some form of validation from a father who did not grant it, hating himself every time he automatically sought it anyway.

Steve finds him like this, unfolding from the old Chevvy looking every inch the enlistment dream. Pressed cotton and starched linen, lines crisp against his endless shoulders. He’s stuck, a little, on the _how_ , but finds he doesn’t care if it means he’s here. “Steve.” He says, voice hoarse from the bitten off screaming, because that’s all he has to say before Steve is there just outside his space. His arms hang out from his sides, awkwardly hanging in the wind and Tony’s breathless from the silent consent they ask. He’s so used to people encroaching and enforcing their own regime on his territory that he doesn’t know what to do with someone who comes waving a flag of peace. Steve waits all the same, the moment stretching out like toffee sat out too long in the summer sun. Tony breathes, lets it rattle around himself and settle, before stepping forward into Steve’s space and accepting the comfort for what it is. He lets Steve’s wingspan enfold him, soft and barely there across his shoulders, and idly thinks about how similar they are to Venn diagrams. Two separate circles intersecting on everything of importance. The soulmark against his collarbone is warm, beats with a pulse of its own, slow and rhythmic in a way that Tony just knows mirrors Steve’s own heartbeat.

“I had leave, wasn’t intending on coming here during Thanksgiving since I was sure you were still at MIT and Ma was working. And well, you want this to be secret which I understand.” Steve speaks, voice rumbling in his throat against Tony’s cheek, “but, I felt you. And I just started driving.”

Tony feels like he’s wading through knee deep water. “I thought.” He starts, swallows, admitting to Steve something he had never even admitted to himself, “I thought perhaps that he’d finally be proud.” The words are broken, like shards of glass churned out his throat. “I had your words in my head, and my work in my hands. And I just, just thought he’d finally see me.”

“ _Tony_.” The word is simultaneously soft and fierce. It’s full of love, yet rage is the undercurrent. Never at Tony, he feels that against his veins, but the anger Steve feels is boundless. Tony thinks Steve would turn his back on war, would twist and wage battles under the banner of Tony Stark, die by that blade. The anger is like the maelstrom of a roiling sea, curbed only by Steve’s similarly boundless ability to love. Tony feels all this, feels Steve’s emotions mirrored in himself. There is no pity. Only understanding.

“He did not make you who you are.” Steve says, with finality. When Steve speaks, so it shall be done, “you did. You had every reason, every reason, to be full of hate yet here you are. You are a marvel.” Steve speaks like stardust, magical and full of rapture. “I don’t blame you seeking his approval. But please tell me, so that you won’t ever be alone. To feel - to feel you in pain and not know the source - I - I can’t do that Tony.”

The words soak into Tony’s skin, turn over like an engine before roaring to life. It takes less than a half step, a hand curled around Steve’s head, Steve’s eyes widening, for Tony to press his lips to his mark’s.

It’s as terrifying as free fall, Steve completely shocked still and Tony almost thinks to run, to curl into himself and beg forgiveness forgetting that some marks are platonic, no matter how all encompassing this may feel. Like tectonic plates shifting against each other, inevitable as an earthquake. But Steve shudders, lowers his hands to curl around Tony’s waist and _pulls_ him impossibly closer like he wants Tony under his skin. The kiss shifts, makes Tony’s knees weak. The lust between them is fed back and forward and amplified. Tony is insinuating a leg between Steve’s that rips a groan from Steve’s mouth, Steve is tugging at Tony’s hair to gain better access at Tony’s neck, mouthing the skin there in a way that has Tony’s eyes rolling back into his skull.

Tony thinks, for a short moment, of the pathetic kisses he’d exchanged with Ty Stone. Teenagers who don’t know any better slobbering all over each other in an attempt to race to maturity, in proof of shaking off adolescence. Ty had always wanted to take it further, wanted to push it, and there had been times Tony was tempted. To let Ty fuck into him as a giant fuck you to fate. But he could never go through with it, the mark on his chest a reminder that someone out there loved him enough to reach through the stars and claim him.

He’s jolted back to the present when a far off sound makes him rip his mouth away, both of them heavy breathing and smiling against each other. He’s suddenly overwhelmingly aware that they are stood in the eaves of a house with enough eyes and spies for Howard it would make the White House jealous. “Not.” Tony says, “Not here. Do you have some place we can go? I won’t be missed”

Steve looks at him, really looks, and how can his eyes be so sad when his lips are still bee-sting red, his hair finger teased within an inch of his life, “Sure, T. I got you.”

* * *

The drive is long, an odd mixture of tense and wonderful, discussion thick and fast spanning from political discourse to Tony’s latest invention. 

“You can’t call a robot Dum-E, Tony!” Steve laughs, eyes on the road, “it’s not very nice.”

“It’s not like he has feelings!” Tony cries back, heart full and heavy. He has the window rolled down, breathes in the air that hits his lungs, lets it burn and snap in his throat.

He catches Steve sneaking glances of him in the mirror, awestruck like he can’t believe this is real. Tony knows how he feels. Steve reaches over, grabs ahold of Tony’s left hand, and squeezes. The mood turns tense again, longing steeped in Tony’s veins like tea leaves in hot water. It’s like now he knows he is allowed to touch he can’t help himself, lets his gaze track up Steve’s arms, across his shoulders and down his chest. Covetous and adoring, he tracks the flush that curls up the back of Steve’s neck as he feels Tony’s attention on him.

Can’t this bucket of bolts go any _faster_?

* * *

Tony rouses later in Steve’s arms, coming to with the knowledge that he is _warm and safe_. He’s folded in Steve’s arms like a swooning dame, and something rears up in his brain about how he hates being fragile, being small. He doesn’t have time to ruminate on it long before Steve quietens the racing thoughts by bending to place a kiss on his brow, taking the stairs two at a time barely pausing for breath. Tony’s always been distinctly aware that his mark is strong, but to have the proof up close and personal is different entirely. It makes something dark in him crow, makes him absurdly proud that this is his. No one else’s.

They arrive at a door and Steve knocks awkwardly with his shoe, hands full. “Buck - it’s me can you open up?”

It’s not long before the door is swung open, and Tony blearily looks up at Steve’s self proclaimed best friend, viciously aware of how awful a first impression he is giving but unable to summon the energy to change it. The imprint of Howard’s punch is starting to bruise against his cheek, he can feel aching weariness in his bones, his eyes won’t stay fully open. 

“You’ve got a nose for trouble, ain’t ya Stevie?” James - Bucky - Barnes says, Brooklyn accent thick, voice heavy with humour. All Tony can blur together is tall, dark hair, and a fond smile directed at his mark like it’s never out of place when he’s around. He feels something sharp settle in his lungs, jealousy like broken bottles in his heart. Here’s someone who knows Steve Rogers like the back of his hand, knows everything that makes him who he is, that brought him to Tony. He’s not sure how he feels about it.

“Pot. Kettle.” Steve huffs, walking past Bucky with his precious cargo, takes Tony to the living room and propping him up on the couch softly. And, because Steve Rogers is wonderful, he leans down with an achingly fond glance, one intimate and private yet Tony’s viciously glad Bucky’s there to see it, speaking quiet “want anything, T?”

“Glass of water would go down well.” Tony asks, leans into Steven’s hand when it brushes against his cheek. The flat is small, sparsely decorated, but it looks more lived in than any of the rooms at Stark Manor. There is life in the walls around Tony, scuff marks on the floor, signs of wear in the couch he’s perched on, that speaks of memories. He is simultaneously struck with the contentment of being completely at home, and yet a stranger. It’s enough to make him nauseous. 

“Tony meet Bucky. Bucky, this is Tony. Play nice.” Steve drops a kiss on Tony’s forehead, heads to what Tony assumes is the kitchen and Tony pretends not to miss him fiercely when he leaves the room. He’s not done a very good job of hiding it, he thinks, when he spots Bucky watching him with a knowing look.

“No offense, kid.” And Tony bristles like a particularly perturbed cat, he’s only three years younger than Steve, “but you look like death warmed up.”

“It’s my particular brand of hobo chic.” Tony counters, voice sharp because he does battle with words and sarcasm, can arm himself to the teeth with acerbic wit and insults meant to hurt. Bucky’s steady gaze tells him he knows it too.

“Don’t shoot.” Bucky says, apropos of nothing, raising his hands in surrender, “I’m on your side. Never had so much ammo to tease Steve with since he’s got so moonstruck over you. How ‘bout a truce - I can offer some embarrassing baby photos?” Bucky starts, mischief taking over his features in a way that makes him look unbelievably youthful and free.

Tony grins slowly, it feeling out of place on his features after the day he’s had, but he welcomes its return all the same, “You know Bucky, I can feel this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Steve comes back in the room at this precise moment, groans like he saw what was coming. Tony can’t mask his delight, nods like a puppet on string. The evening slowly declines into itself, and trust it to take Steve to take a day, one normally reserved for dark thoughts and bruises, and lovingly restore it into what it’s meant to be. For new found family, forged in the fire, for celebrating a bond so exciting it steals Tony’s breath out his throat.

Bucky makes his excuses at some point between dusk and dawn, bumping shoulders with a shattered Tony. “Hey,” he speaks quiet, like he’s trying not to frighten him, “it’s real good to meet you. I worried he wouldn’t find you quick enough.”

Tony’s too sleepy to puzzle through what that means, but he smiles all the same. Steve speaks with Bucky in the hallway, voices low for a while, and Tony falls into a dreamlike state somewhere between breathing and sleeping. He lets the time drip through his fingers, until Steve’s crouched in front of him again. 

“Hey T,” he cards a hand through Tony’s hair, “lets get you somewhere comfy, yeah?”

Tony just slurs a yes in acceptance, lets Steve guide him down the hallway to a small room just off centre. It smells like paint, like walnut oil and sweat. It smells like Steve. Tony drinks it in, lets it wash over him, lets Steve guide him to bed and take off his shoes, mumbling his gratitude.

He’s nearly asleep with his eyes closed when he feels a huff of breath against his forehead, a chaste kiss pressed there, and then it’s gone. He can’t feel the warmth of Steve anymore, “Sssteve-“ he mumbles, eyes flying open, panicked. “where you goin’?”

“Hey sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere, I’m just going to go sleep on the couch. I’ll just be down the hall I promise.” Steve’s in the doorway, framed by the dawn filtering through the skylight. Tony has a brief moment of wondering whether he’s hallucinating an angel.

“No. No no, Steve.” Tony’s voice sounds broken, “Steve, please, stay. I’ll be good. I promise. Just - stay?” The words are close to begging, open like a flesh wound.

Steve’s at his side before he can blink, “No problem, Tony. I’m here. I’ll stay. I promise.” He folds one of Tony’s hands in his, interlocking their fingers and letting the heat of him bleed through their shared contact, “I’ll be right here, you just go to sleep.”

“Mmkay.” Tony mumbles, settled now that all was right in his world, “you promised.”

He thinks, as he slips off into dreamless sleep, that he hears Steve whisper something. _I promise, T._

* * *

Tony jumps into consciousness like a cliff dive. He wakes, and already his mind plays the night before in vivid technicolour against his eyelids. Howard, the fight. Steve, their kiss. The drive. The evening. Begging Steve to stay.

He curses under his breath, cheeks filling with colour. He goes to raise a hand to drag across his face, but finds it weighted down.

Steve is snoring softly by his side, one hand still in Tony’s, knelt by the bed like he’s praying for forgiveness. It looks horrendously uncomfortable, Steve still fully clothed down to his shined shoes, and Tony feels a wave of gratitude and affection sweep through him like a tidal wave.

“Steve?” His voice is barely a whisper, breath ruffling the golden curls of Steve’s bed head, “Steve.” He repeats, voice firmer, watches as Steve stirs into wakefulness.

“Hmm? Oh, Tony, I’m sorry, I meant to only stay until you fell asleep then grab a sofa cushion to sleep on.” Steve flushes a gorgeous wine colour, Tony watching with a fascination as it spills across his cheeks.

“Come here.” Tony says, voice bold, and he frames it slightly firm to pierce through the sleep fog Steve still seems under. “Come get in bed, your back must be killing.”

“T, I don’t want to take advantage.” Steve protests, weakly, even as his limbs are already moving like they desperately want to doze in a position that isn’t half upright. Tony fixes him with an incredulous look, one he’s been reliably informed by Jarvis has every ounce of ‘snark he’d expect to see from one so opinionated’.

“Steve. Trust me, I’m in your bed because I want to be here. I’m just embarrassed I fell asleep on you.”

Tony slides over to let Steve carve out a space beside him, still sleep drunk, when Steve replies, “You never have to feel embarrassed around me, Tony.”

They are intimately, achingly close now. Tony insistently trying to ignore how perfectly he fits into the space of Steve’s arms, like it was made for him. He can count every individual eyelash against Steven’s cheek, can see every fleck of green amongst the ocean blue of his eyes, sees the freckles like constellations across his nose. He watches Steve’s eyes flutter shut, like he’s fighting against sleep, like he’s as desperate to soak Tony in as Tony is to Steve.

“Have I told you the story of Rhodey’s birthday party last year?” Tony asks, and Steve sleepily nods, pulls Tony closer to him until his face nestled in the crook of Steve’s neck, legs tangled together. He wraps an arm around Tony’s back and Tony feels lit up from the inside. “Well,” he continues, smile beatific across his face, “it starts with an absolutely gigantic airplane shaped cake, and me being overconfident in my ability to uncork a champagne bottle with a sword.”

Steve snorts into Tony’s hair, and Tony chuckles slightly against Steve’s collarbone before continuing. As he speaks he feels Steve slip back into sleep, and let’s a bone-deep contentment settle in his skin.

* * *

He’s not sure what sorcery has been at work in the past twenty four hours, but it’s like his guardian angel has suddenly remembered he exists, sending him endless good things to make up for the utter shittiness that was his childhood and adolescence. When he wakes, he’s alone, curled up in the imprint of Steve’s body in the bed, still warm from his skin. He can hear faint sounds of life, of opened drawers and stacking plates, and there’s a wafting smell of bacon grease that has Tony salivating. He hadn’t ended up eating anything at Thanksgiving after all.

His clothes are now nearly starched onto him, sleep hardened with sweat enough to make him wrinkle his nose at himself. It’s a quick job to clean himself up in the attached small bathroom underneath the dim light that flickers like a candle. It’s longer work to summon the strength to shuck his own clothes aside his boxers and pull on a jumper and shorts of Steve’s, because yet again his mark is perfect and has left them folded ready for him. He’s reminded vividly of their differences, the wrists of the shirt comically hiding his hands, the bottom of it scuffing the tops of his thighs. He pulls the drawstring of the shorts tight around his waist, in a futile effort to keep them from slipping.

When he wanders through to the kitchen he is met by two things. The smell of good, hearty, homemade food that he usually acquaints with Rhodey (never Stark manor). And Steve, unmade and unmasked, humming to himself as he spins round the kitchenette. Freshly showered hair curls against the back of his neck, and he’s delicious in sweatpants and a white T-shirt, dangerously gorgeous in a way that has Tony’s train of thought halted and stuck on the fact that Steve is his. The mark Tony can just see shaded against his hipbone says so.

Tony clears his throat against the dark swell of lust that sits there, and Steve turns, moment broken. His smile is soft and full of stars, “Hey T. Sleep well?”

“Better with you.” Tony feels Steven’s gaze on him like a brand, skin set alight wherever Steve’s eyes land. He notes how his marks eyes darken, until there is only the faintest sliver of blue circling his pupils. It makes Tony feel _powerful_ , that this reaction is all for him. He wants to swim in it, get drunk on it. He feels the ghost memory of Steven’s lips against his from last night, and viciously wants a repeat so bad he aches with it.

“Tony, you look -“ Steve starts, stops, swallows. “Let’s just say you look better in my clothes than I do.” He’s stepping toward Tony like he’s powerless not to, trapped in Tony’s gravitational field. A pull as inevitable as gravity.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Tony says, and wow Steve is right there, close enough to feel his shaky exhalation after the words. Tony has a brief moment to thank whatever came over him to swallow some toothpaste before he came looking for Steve. He doesn’t want something as stupid as morning breath ruining this moment.

Steve traces a shaky finger across the US ARMY script across the sweater against Tony’s chest. The touch is more intimate than anything Tony’s ever felt, says more in Steve’s movements than a declaration would. “I - I really wanna kiss you.” Steve says stupidly, like a man at a confessional, like it’s the only sin worth recounting. The only one he’ll ever utter aloud. Underneath it is a question, underneath it is an out, beautifully laid bare ready for Tony to pick up if he needs it. He’s so used to his equilibrium being shattered by touch first-ask later, or a fist in his face without warning, that he’s left powerless to speak for a minute. He’s so used to his consent being stripped from him, and yet he can feel in his bones this man would give him the key to his own heart if he could. He would let Tony ruin him, if it’s what Tony wanted.

It leaves Tony helpless to do anything but rock forward into Steve’s orbit, crush his lips against Steve’s mouth like a scorch mark. As wild as fire, it’s like the engine of his libido, left idling from last night, has turned over and roared to life. He wants Steve everywhere. He curls his fingers into Steve’s shoulders and pulls, feels the percussion of Steve’s heartbeat. He _wants and want and wants_ everything right now, he can’t get Steve close enough, a groan reverberating around his skull when Steve’s mouth moves under his, open and wet. Steve kisses like Tony imagines he wages war, like a siege, like strategy alight under the most turbulent of conditions. Steve has one arm around his waist, hand under his jumper to palm at the small of Tony’s back. The other is wrapped in the tendrils of his hair, and when he takes a hold and twists just a little to get better access Tony keens into his mouth, rocks up a little dazedly.

He’s not sure whose idea it is, but Tony ends up lifted onto one of the kitchen counters, legs moving instinctively to wrap around Steve’s waist, encourage him closer. He feels flayed open, wants to invite Steve in to the darkest parts of his soul, let him stay there forever. He can feel the feedback of his own maelstrom of emotions singing back at him in the most glorious choir song, feels the mark at his collarbone _sigh_ with it. He should be worried about Bucky wandering in, should be worried about what his mother thinks of his empty bed. But he can’t think of anything else but Steve’s lips on his own, can’t think of anything but his mark taking on its own heartbeat against his neck.

“Tony,” Steve’s voice is shaky against Tony’s lips, “god.” And it’s like he’s praying in worship, like Tony’s a deity far above him, able to unman him so. Tony chases the words from Steve’s mouth, kisses down his neck and scents him. He smells of soap and motor oil and home. Tony can feel his heartbeat, a shaky thing, in his neck, reaching forward further to nip at the pulse, met with an answering groan. Steve has both hands up Tony’s sweatshirt now, each fingertip close to scorching as they brush Tony’s skin. It feels like a stellar collision. Astronomers predict that two stars colliding only occurs once every 10,000 years, and this feels similarly momentous and rare and inescapable. 

He wonders if all marks feel like this, spares a moment to feel sorry for those who don’t, then returns to feeling viciously glad that it feels like this for him, for them. If he gets this, if he gets Steve panting against his mouth like he’s ran a marathon, everything else doesn’t matter.

He’s pulling Steve’s shirt _up up and off,_ greedy with it. Steve’s quick to help him, rucking the offending item over his broad shoulders and throwing it somewhere to the floor. Tony’s brain goes offline for a gorgeously blissful moment, tracking golden skin, muscular arms and harsh lines of a body made for battle. Steve doesn’t notice, too focused on gaining access to Tony’s lips again, seeking them out like water in the desert. His back is a solid wall to the sunlight filtering in from the kitchen window, coating Tony in shade. He’s slightly shorter than Tony like this, head tilted up into Tony’s eye line, always always always giving Tony the power. Tony wants to bottle this feeling, wear it like perfume on the inside of his wrists and the crook of his neck. He seeks purchase on the expanse of Steve’s skin, huffs a moan against Steve’s lips, curves his fingers against the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants. He’s grinning against Steve’s lips, happiness (is it his or Steve’s or a combination of both?) threatening to consume him. “Come on.” He urges, bites Steve’s bottom lip, “Come on, baby.” 

The bacon on the stove burns. Forgotten. Steve wrestles his lips from Tony, takes a step back, Tony mesmerised by the rhythm of his chest rising and falling. “Wait.” Tony’s not sure if that’s directed at him or directed at Steve himself, “Wait.”

Tony arches under his gaze, watches Steve watch him with half-lidded eyes. Steve’s gaze makes him feel _gorgeous_ , makes him feel invincible. He huffs a sigh, watches Steve’s eyes catch on his chest, smothers a smile.

“Why am I waiting?” Tony asks, tone cheeky, watches Steve laugh a shaky thing and run a hand through his hair. Tony wants that hand to be on him again, wants to run his own hands through Steve’s golden hair. 

“I - Jesus Tony.” Steve starts, gathering the words as he moves to pull the bacon off the stove, switch it off. He comes back into Tony’s space. He puts his hands either side of his face, press a kiss to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. “I want you so badly.”

“You have me.” The words are out of Tony’s mouth before he can stop them, choked out on instinct. He knows it to be a fact, as clear as the sky is blue.

“Don’t - my control is - it’s not great right now.” Steve admits, “and I want to know you, want to love you. Don’t want our first time reduced to a quick thing with Bucky in the room next door before I’m called back to war. I want to spend days learning every little thing that makes you tick, want to spend lazy days with you. Want to visit you on campus, and meet Rhodey. I want everything, and I’m willing to wait for it. Can you?”

Tony flushes a deep wine red. He comes from a family of liars, he socialises with cheats and philanderers and sociopaths. He forgets how direct and achingly honest Steve can be, how he doesn’t hide behind pretense or joking words. Every single letter is chosen precisely for Tony’s ears. He stares at Steve for a pregnant moment, watches the flush begin to set in on his still gorgeously naked chest. He thinks of how that skin will feel against his own, how they’ll move together, and blushes nuclear.

“When you say everything. You gonna make an honest man of me?” Tony jests. Steve snorts.

“You ridiculous, silly thing.” Steve says, eyes blue and bright, “I’m going to marry you, if you’ll let me. I want to be there when you change the world. I want to live with you and love with you and everything between. And if -“ he stops, “if you need that to stay between us, if you need for this to be just for us, I can do that too. I’ll wait however long you need me to.”

Tony feels like he’s standing on the edge of something. He can feel how easy it will be to fall in love with Steven Grant Rogers, how wonderful it will feel. He knows now, what philosophers speak of when they say that the bond is inevitable - like a siren song. He can’t ever imagine being able to walk around with this bond in his head and think of anything else. Aside maybe computers. Although his brain is now just an amalgamation of COMPUTERS AND STEVE with rainbows and love hearts peppering each individual thought.

“I want everything you’ve just said. I do. Shit - Steve - I want to tattoo it on my skin, I want to take out a two page ad in the Chronicle. I just - I just need to deal with college, I want Howard to be able to do nothing about it. Which means I need to be 21. Can you wait for me?”

“I’d wait for you forever.” Steve says, beautifully bare and honest and brutal.

* * *

The drive back is full of stolen touches and pressed kisses to knuckles, and conversations filled with laughter and jokes so light Tony feels like he’s on a cloud. When they arrive back at Stark Manor Tony can’t resist pressing a kiss to Steve’s mouth, and that kiss becomes two, three, four, before he’s astride Steve’s knees and pressing into him like he wants to crawl into his bones. It takes a while for them to disengage from each other, namely because every time they separate Tony leans back in to steal a kiss just because he can.

“T,” Steve’s voice is so warm and fond and gorgeous, even when filled with sadness, “I’m heading back out tomorrow, but I hope to be stateside again in a month or two. Write to me?”

“Always.” Tony promises, “stay safe, bond of mine.” And the words are ancient, steeped in tradition. They are meant for marriage, meant for oaths. The surprise reads on Steve’s face as clear as glass, and Tony can’t stop himself from smiling, from tracing the answering smile on Steve’s face with his fingertips.

Steve catches one finger with his lips, pressed a kiss to the pad, “For you, bond of my own.”

The words promise something else. They sit around Tony’s shoulders like deep-seated comfort, hold him close as he watches Steve leave with a wave.

It’s in this state of dreamy disarray and euphoria that he trips into the serving quarters, thinks nothing of the light still on in the walk in. Jarvis often leaves it on, a beacon for Tony to guide himself back again. He hums to himself, pulls a bag of crisps down from the cabinet, and succeeds in stifling a scream when he notices he’s not alone.

“Hello, Maria.” He squeaks out.

She sits like a ghost, moonlight painting her grey and otherworldly. Sadness hangs over her like a cloud. “You met them then?”

Tony’s heart sinks like a stone, “Met who?”

Maria Stark shifts, sits up, looks fierce for one moment in her entire life, fixes Tony with a gaze so parental in its disbelief he has to stop from looking behind him to see if she’s pointing her gaze elsewhere. “Don’t play dumb with me, Anthony. It doesn’t suit you. You met them.”

Maria looks at him. Truly _looks_ , for the first time, at Anthony Stark. At her son. “You look _debauched_. I could sense your happiness from miles away. And, if nothing else, the fact your jumper has fallen down and shows your very healthy and stable mark on your neck says you’ve met someone of _some_ importance.”

Tony slaps a hand to his neck, the sound echoing round the room like a gunshot. His heart is thundering now, panic a catch in his throat. He feels Steve at the end of it, questioning and worried, and is lucid enough to push whatever reassurance he can back to his mark. Maria isn’t a threat.

“I don’t think it’s any of your business.” Tony bites, words sharp, sees Maria flinch when they cut her.

“You’re right, it isn’t any of my business.” Maria’s voice is so sad it’s _wrecked_ with it. “But I want you to know I’m happy for you. Whatever that is worth. I’m sure she’s -“

“He.” Tony cuts in, word a freshly sharpened blade. He watches her with steely eyes, dares her to say anything.

“He.” She repeats, soft like silk, “I’m sure he’s worth it all. They always are.” The words are longing, wistful. Broken and hollow. She shakes herself free from the melancholy, and the words that follow are laced with iron. “You are happy. I know. Hide it. Keep it far away from Howard. That man only knows destruction.”

Tony takes a gulp of air against the sadness in the room, lets it percolate around his lungs. He lets the warning wash over him for what it is, an ally. Maria has good as told him she won’t tell Howard, and the worst of his fear is released to the wind. He also knows what this means for her, how Howard will only see failure if he learns she has kept it from him. “Thank you.”

She shakes her head viciously, perfectly coiffed hair bouncing and coming undone, “It’s what he would of done.”

Tony doesn’t need to ask who. He only has to look at how she thumbs over the flowers at her wrist to know who she means.

* * *

_Dearest T,_

_I’ve been thinking of Haig recently. Particularly “I loved them instantly. It’s remarkable. Where was that love before? Where did you acquire it from? The way it is suddenly there, total and complete, as sudden as grief but in reverse, is one of the wonders of being human.”_

_I miss you like I miss oxygen when I hold my breath under water. I write this with my shoulders hunched up around my head so Bucky can’t read over me and make fun of me endlessly. He likes you, by the way, likes you even better now that he can tease me eternally. I don’t care though._

_How is Dum-E? Did you get the wires (?) sorted out okay? I was listening when you spoke about him, but unfortunately I am not a genius who holds (soon to be) three degrees in Engineering and Physics. I don’t want to say something completely and utterly wrong, so I’m going to say wires. It’s probably completely wrong, and I look forward to you telling me so._

_I have never been so dog tired. We’ve been moving quite a lot of kit, so my back feels like someone’s been at it with a meat grinder and my heads close to bursting. But the good news is it looks like we will be setting up camp on a semi-permanent basis. Which means we have set up and have access to a phone, which they are allowing us to make personal calls on once a week. You wrote a mobile number, once, on the bottom of the address you gave me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you already knew this might happen, you are a genius._

_I can’t wait to hear your voice._

_Yours,_

_Steve_

The phone call never comes. Instead Tony finds himself spending a lazy Friday evening tangled in wiring with coding flashing behind his eyelids when it happens. When he feels something wrap round his bond like a vice and squeeze.

Tony is aware of pain, far off like it’s coming to him from underwater. He’s sunk to his knees on the cold floor with a clatter, can feel fear round his heart like a vice. He pushes worry down the bond, panic escalating in his throat when he gets nothing back. He gets a scream of confusion and agony in feedback before silence so oppressive it’s like smothering out a candle. It’s only made worse for the fact _he now can’t feel Steve_. He can’t feel the rich undercurrent of Steve’s affection he’s come to see as his own. It’s abstract, never consistent with feeling, but always present. He feels it’s absence like a missing limb, and with mounting terror he realises something is very, very wrong.

He can’t remember Rhodey finding him, sobbing endlessly caught on a silent scream. He only remembers coming to with vicious clarity, finding his phone with shaky fingers, typing in a number he wished he didn’t know.

“Obadiah Stone speaking.” The voice is friendly, warm, but Tony knows what’s below the surface. Obie is a politician through and through, and Tony knows better than most than you don’t want to arm him with secrets unless you fancy being blackmailed. But it’s this, or it’s Howard. And Maria’s warning still rattles in his chest.

“Obie, it’s Anthony. I need a favour.”

“Well shit, Tony. What’s in it for me?” Obie sounds indulgent, sounds like a shark scenting blood. Tony’s walking wounded, feels like if he presses a hand to his chest he’ll find a bloody mess there. But all he can think is _Steve Steve Steve please_.

* * *

It’s short work for Obadiah Stone to commandeer a helicopter on behalf of Stark Enterprise. In the time spent shouting orders and barking at people down the phone whilst Rhodey talks to everyone else, Tony learns two things of importance. 1. Steve was injured, in an ambush gone wrong, but blessedly (unbelievably and enough to make Tony set up an altar at every deity's feet) _alive_. 2. He was in a field hospital in Iraq only until he stabilised, then was being moved to Senegal and hopefully from there to the US. Tony only makes one house call, stops by Sarah Rogers. She answers, teary eyed and hollow. “Anthony,” she sobs, “my Steve.”

He has a moment to realise he’s probably not giving the most reassuring impression of himself, grinning madly on her doorstep, hair like a birds nest, eyes sunken with lack of sleep. But _injured_. Injured means not dead. Injured is fixable. And Anthony Stark is a fixer by trade, taking broken bolts and pulling them together. He has to believe he can fix this, because mercy have forgiveness on his soul if he can't.

“We’re going. Can you pack a bag quick? Anything you forget we can get you.” And Sarah looks at him like he’s grown two heads, and he doesn’t mean to be sharp but every minute they spend delaying is precious seconds wasted that he could be by Steve’s side. “Sarah.” He says, short, and she comes round, “We have a military escort. We’ll be in Africa by tomorrow evening. Can you pack a bag quick.” He repeats himself, watches Sarah slowly register the order like it’s coming to her through water.

“Yes. Sorry, yes.” She begins moving, begins pulling things into a small satchel with shaky fingers. “I need to let Jarvis know I won’t be making it to work.”

“It’s fine, he’s been informed.” They step out together when she’s ready, and her steps only falter slightly when she tracks the black car waiting at the bottom of the drive. Happy’s stood by the back door, friendly airs and graces he puts on for Tony gone. He looks imposing in a sleek black suit, looks the part, “Anthony, what did you do?” Sarah asks, quietly, and maybe the question is more rhetorical than anything else. He tells himself that’s why he doesn’t answer.

* * *

It’s not 14 hours later when they land on African soil. Senegal looked vibrant from the air, full of life, but Tony couldn’t think of anything but how Steve is somewhere below, alone and scared. The bond remains quiet, and Tony absently worries at the skin around his nails, doesn’t notice he’s bleeding until Sarah puts a hand over his.

The officer who meets them on the ground is tall, swallows up the sun, speaks loudly to be heard over the helicopter’s blades as they wind down. “Mr Stark, Ms Rogers, with me.”

He doesn’t offer them platitudes, doesn’t try to ease their anxiety, and Tony’s absurdly thankful. He thinks in this moment he’ll bite the head off anyone who steps too close, anyone who speaks of Steve like another number, another casualty to war. 

Dakar Hospital is nothing more than a hastily assembled field hospital, but Tony steps through the curtain and steels himself. 

“Lieutenant Rogers is in stable condition and we hope to move him to Val-de-Grace in France tomorrow. I must warn you he will not look how you are used to seeing him -“

“Please.” Tony bites, “please just take us to him.”

The officer goes to speak, perhaps sees the devastated look on Tony’s face, the quiet sadness of Sarah’s, and thinks better of a reply. He walks down the makeshift corridor, personnel moving out the way as they pass. Tony doesn’t like the looks of pity, of understanding, as they continue.

When they are brought to Steve, the first thought Tony has is how small he looks, swallowed up by swathes of bandages and pillows and a bed large enough for both of them. Steve never looks small, he looks larger than life, is all broad shoulders and thickly corded muscle. The bed and endless monitors around Steve makes a mockery of him, makes him look less than the centre of Tony’s world.

“Steve.” He whispers, like a prayer, and the officer melts away. He’s vaguely aware of Sarah on the other side of the bed, talking and fussing on a gasp that could be a sob. He sinks to his knees beside his bond, and takes a hold of the undamaged arm with a shaky hand. He feels the bond between them crackle like static electricity, before curling up like a sated cat. Steve returns to him like the waves of an ocean, and tears slip unbidden from Tony’s eyes when he can finally feel him again. Finally feel whole. 

“Oh my darling,” Tony says, voice broken and flayed open, “Am I glad to see you.”

He stares at his love for as long as he can before blinking, filling up on the sight of him, feeling his equilibrium return.

Much later, when hours have dripped by in a steady stream Tony feels Steve returning to consciousness far before his eyes flutter open. He feels the gentle stirring of the bond shift and shimmer between them, feels Steve come round with a brief flash of _panic, rage, confusion_ , that is replaced quickly with just confusion when he senses Tony close to him, pain a thick and tangible undercurrent.

“Hello Steve,” Tony talks, and Sarah looks up sharp, watches him with questioning eyes from across the bed where she’s set up sentry by Steve’s IV line, “Your mum and I are both here. You’re okay. We’ve got you. You can rest now.”

Tony feels Steve’s hand clench once under his fingers, feels the wave of _gratitude love adoration_ crash against his mind so much so his throat thickens with unshed tears. To think he was so close to losing this. He’s not allowed down that rabbit hole long before the light that is Steve pulls him back, curls into him and falls asleep there. He’s mesmerised watching the rise and fall of his bonds chest, lets it lull him to sleep.

* * *

He only speaks to Obie again once. It’s a quick thing, muttered words into the phones mouthpiece. It’s enough. He feels the hours march towards him, the clock ticking down to its inevitable conclusion. 

He holds Steve even tighter, nestled amongst the heart rate monitors and numerous IVs, afterwards.

It’s short work to drop his name enough to count, to get Steve the best medical attention. He wraps Dakar Hospital in the oppressive fog that is Stark Industries, has Steve whisked onto a plane kitted out better than Air Force One, headed straight to the US the moment they are clear to do so, flies tens of specialists out to meet them on the landing strip. He knows the bill he’s wracking up will be counted in nails hammered into his back as he’s strung up like a sacrifice by his own father.

But he looks at Steve’s face, sees it finally quirking into a sad smile that steals his breath out his lungs, and finds it difficult to care.

Steve is home, Steve is safe. The rest is white noise.

* * *

As a general rule, Tony’s appearance at Stark Manor only leads to heartache and bruises. It’s par for the course that his next visit is the same.

“So, Anthony.” Howard begins, always slurring, always harsh. Maria is sat close enough to Tony he can see how hard she is holding onto her cutlery, knuckles white. He feels foreboding seep into his skin, thinks about how he left Steve, sleepy and smiling, finally well and rested chatting up a storm to his mother in the kitchens, for this. He looks at Obie, now, from across the table. He’s sweating, but his smile is smug. He feels dread creep into his stomach, feels Steve stirring at the sadness Tony must be feeding back to him. “I hear you’ve been hiding something from me. Or better - _someone_.”

Maria’s cutlery scrapes across the china of her plate, “This starter was delicious, wasn’t it Howard?” She speaks quickly, voice trembling. Tony looks at her sharply. Maria never speaks, Maria is always silent, “Shall we ask Jarvis to bring through the mains?” She makes a move to get up, to start clearing the plates, lets cutlery clatter and picks up speed and sound.

“Maria.” Howard starts, “Maria. _Sit down_.” His voice is harsh now, vicious. Maria sits, folds into herself. Tony can see her hands shaking. Or maybe it’s himself trembling now, he can’t be sure.

“So, Anthony Stark has a soul bond.” Howard never pulls a punch. Tony feels his words like a slap on his skin, drops the glass of champagne to the table with a crash, spilling fizz across the tablecloth, “Even now you defy me, after everything I’ve done for you.”

“Everything you’ve done for me.” Tony repeats, tone sardonic. Maria sits up, back poker straight.

“Anthony - don’t” she speaks soft.

Howard continues like Tony hasn’t spoken, “you have defied me. You have lied to me. You are not worthy of the Stark name.” His voice is shaking, and Tony reaches out to Steve to grab a hold of him like a chokehold. “You will leave this house only to finish your degree, and then you will be coming back to work for Stark Industries. You will publicly date who I require you to. You will associate with those I tell you to. You will not see this - this _soldier boy_ \- again.”

Howard’s words are aggressive, hitting Tony’s skin like bullets. He can feel Steve at the end of their tether, can feel his urgency. He thinks idly that he’s making his way to Tony, panics. This isn’t fair, they are not ready. This is his. The world gave him this, gave him Steve, told him that he’s the most important piece of his puzzle. He will lay waste to those that want to take it from him.

“I won’t.” He says. He hears Maria gasp in the background, and he’d spare a moment to roll his eyes against the drama of it all but all he can feel is Steve rolling in like thunder, can taste his panic like ash in his mouth.

“You certainly will.” 

“You can’t. I won’t.” Tony continues.

Maria turns to Tony, tears free flowing now, mascara like rings around her eyes, “Anthony-“

“I’m not ashamed.” Tony’s voice is louder now, echoes round the room. He stares Obie down now, hatred filling his gaze, before he looks toward Howard once more. He notes the spittle against his bottom lip, the rosy red of his cheeks from his Glenfiddich 18, the shakes of his hands. “He is mine. And I am his. You couldn’t possibly hope to understand.” His tone is scathing, scalding. He hears a clatter from far off, knows Steve can’t be far away, is soothed by it.

“You will do as I say.” Howard roars, but Tony couldn’t care less. He turns towards the door just in time for it to open, to swing wide. Steve’s shoulders block out the light from the hall, heaving with exertion, eyes wild. Tony steps toward him on autopilot, moves into his orbit without a second thought, tracks the scarring on his neck, the shadow of a bruise on his cheek. Walking wounded, they are all just walking wounded. Steve doesn’t look toward anyone else, gaze only for Tony.

“Are you okay?” He asks, takes Tony’s face in his hands, presses a kiss to his forehead. For a blessed moment it’s just them, Tony can close his eyes and pretend the impending doom isn’t forthcoming.

He turns back to the room, looks at Maria, so broken and brittle, “Steven Rogers is my soulmate. We are bonded. And you can’t do anything about it.”

Howard’s on his feet in moments, face turned to puce, “Like _hell_ I can’t! You will never be successful, will never amount to anything if you let this _gold digger_ seduce you and fuck you into a marriage that won’t last out the month!”

Tony’s raised a fist before he can stop, feels Steve behind him at his shoulder. He pauses, lets his hand hang there. “You think I need you?” He laughs, the sound acidic, “I don’t need you. I will be bigger than you ever were, better than you ever could be. You haven’t created anything of any worth since I was eight years old, and it kills you that your success is off my back.”

He takes a long breath, Steve’s hand a comforting weight on the small of his back, continues, “You think I can’t exist without your money? I can’t create without your company? Watch as I rise higher than you and burn it to the ground.”

“This is stupidity! Where is our security! Someone throw this scum out!” And it takes a moment for it to register that Howard means Steve, not Tony. Happy’s there, and Tony doesn’t let it sting him when he rests a hand on Steve’s shoulder, tugs him towards the door.

“Happy - _please_.” Tony begs, watches the sadness in his old confidant’s eyes. A memory flashes across his vision, of being young and impetuous and saved from skinned knees and bloody noses by Happy’s gentle guidance. It feels hollow now.

“Tony, it’s fine.” Steve turns to him, “I’ll see you soon.” And it feels a bit like a goodbye, Steve trying to hold back tears with a horrible smile that looks pasted on, “I love you.”

And this moment should be for them, “I love you too.” Tony whispers, repeats it louder when Happy pulls Steve from the room, “Steve!”

The rooms silent for a moment, horrible and deathly quiet. Tony feels gutted, feels like someone’s pulled him apart by the ribcage and carved out his heart. He feels Steve still, abject terror and agony, and wants to sink into the floor.

“You think I want this life?” Tony’s voice is broken now, waves round to the room, “think I need money and dinner parties and people you think will be good for me? Steve is good for me. Have you not noticed, or enjoyed, my productivity with regards to R&D for SI has gone up 23% in the past six months?”

Howard regards him with something that burns too close to hatred to call, jealousy deep in his eyes, “You ungrateful, spoilt child.”

Obie sits up now, takes charge at the head of the table with a slick smile and raised hands, “Anthony, you may not like this life. But it’s yours. It’s not Mr Rogers - a veteran with no prospects.”

“Don’t you _dare_.” Tony all but spits, and Obie just grins. Obie’s speciality is pain points, is reaching into a company and discovering where they need SI, or where SI can crush them. It makes sense it extends to people. Tony’s helpless against the rising nausea in his stomach.

“He still doesn’t look very well, does he? I suppose an IED will do that to a person.” Obie muses, “You think he’s up for what the media will paint him as?” He asks, and Howard cocks his head, calculating and listening, “An opportunistic gold digger? You think we can’t paint him and his family however we like?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“No of course not,” Obie agrees, easy, “but it would be very easy to drop to the media how he and his mother planned this all out. Of course, we’d have to fire her, given that she’s been involved in this crazy honey pot scheme. And perhaps Mr Rogers honourable discharge get turned into dishonourable? Who are the media going to believe, Stark Industries, or a young boy with a dishonourable discharge and pennies to his name?"

Tony’s heart calls for murder now, calls for blood and betrayal. He watches Howard smile, wide and lecherous, and suppresses the urge to leap across the table and carve it out of his skin.

Maria’s voice is light, airy, penetrates the thick fog of anger in the room, “Let’s get the main course out, shall we?” She stands up, calls Jarvis with a bell, and in doing so brushes up against Tony’s sleeve, whispers into his ear, “Anthony, don’t be foolish. Take a breath and _think_.”

He stands tall, furious, chest heaving. There is sweat on his brow and fire in his lungs now, “If you touch a hair on Steve’s head, if you even think about thinking about him, I will not write another line of code or another line of design for you again.”

“You are a _child_.” Howard spits, “and you will forget these fanciful notions the next time a blond airhead offers you a quick fuck.”

Tony’s aware he’s bitten through his bottom lip to prevent himself screaming, knows the mad smile he graces his father with is bloody and unhinged. 

“You will go to bed. You will attend our dinner party tomorrow evening, and Jarvis will be chaperoning you at MIT until you finish your blasted exams, at which point you will move to SI headquarters.”

Tony waits until the room is finally empty before he breaks down.

* * *

Next morning, Jarvis leaves the house on errands for the Starks, thick envelope under his coat containing every word Tony wishes he could say into Steve’s open and trusting gaze.

Maria goes shopping on Rodeo Drive, later, brings back a small envelope nestled amongst the Chanel. The only word on the front is _Tony_.

Sarah hands in her notice not an hour later, claims she’s going to get back into her true passion - nursing. Rhodey’s mother, a charge nurse in Brooklyn, puts in a good word. She starts a week later, and any trace of her working for Howard is silently wiped from all possible history.

Bucky quietly puts Steve in touch with Sam Wilson, a counsellor working for the US Department of Veterans Affairs. Steve's a hard worker, and he gets noticed and promoted fast. He doesn't stay 'just' a former soldier with an honourable discharge for long.

Tony attends dinner parties, soirées, social gatherings. He laughs mechanically when required, woodenly smiles at Ty when desired, charm sliding off him like butter off a knife. He’s just going through the motions, like a puppet on strings, feels Howard’s stare like a brand on his back. He reaches for Steve in his mind, feels the echolocation ping off against his intended. Feels his love and sadness jostle for purchase against him, lets it soak in. He turns and stares Howard down, lets his eyes burn until Howard turns away first, discombobulated. Their relationship has gone through a paradigm shift, has split and shaken. Tony no longer cares one jot for the approval of a man who means nothing to him. 

Howard watches him with puzzled, furious eyes every time. He won’t find a fault there, Tony makes sure of it.

* * *

Maria sweeps through a couple thousand in Dolce, a few more thousand in Louis Vuitton. In between, she takes a lump of cash out an ATM. Happy makes a stop at a petrol station on the way to Stark Manor and buys a sim-only package Motorola mobile. The phone only calls one number - _Nelson & Murdock, Divorce Attorneys at Law_.

These two events are unrelated, should anyone ask. No one does.

* * *

Jarvis drives Tony back to MIT, only stopping for an hour to refuel at a diner just off the interstate. 

Jarvis doesn’t leave the car, but anyone driving past the restaurant will see two young men, blonde and brunette, with their heads bent together like they can’t bear to be more than centimetres apart in the dying sun.

They leave together, and Tony only pauses a moment to kiss his other half desperately and try not to fly apart at the seams.

He stares out the window at Steve’s waving figure, until it becomes indistinguishable in the distance.

* * *

“I don’t - I don’t know if I can do this.” Maria speaks, voice trembling, held together only by sheer force of will. She packs the last of her jewellery with shaky hands. Each diamond paves the way toward her security, each ruby her freedom. Nelson and Murdock aren’t cheap, but they don’t doubt Maria will be in line for half of Howard’s estate when they finally make a move. Maria wears her Tiffany pearls round her neck as a just in case, nevertheless.

“Come on, Maria.” Tony says, the words bouncing off the now empty room. The movers have long been and gone, disassembling every shred of evidence that Maria and Anthony Stark were ever here. Jarvis stands, every patient sentry, behind them.

“You’re certain you want to do this?” She asks now, “Even knowing what it will cost you?”

“What it will cost me?” Tony asks, “I’m not the one divorcing him.”

“Yes, but,” Maria starts, stares at her wrist fondly, “My life is already over. Yours is just at the start. He’ll not make this easy, when he knows.”

“Your life is beginning now too, mother.” And the words feel foreign on his lips, but completely at home all at the same time. Maria’s eyes shoot to his, watering at the edges. She reaches for his hand, squeezes, and sighs. It rattled around her, around the room, as she takes one long look and nods.

“Okay, okay. We can do this.”

Jarvis is waiting at the mouth of the door, smile bright, eyes wise. He helps carry the last of their belongings, the last of what little good memories they have of this place, packed to cardboard. Tony takes vicious pleasure in the knowledge that Howard’s return from his conference in Russia will be met with empty silence and a sheaf of papers pinned to his door that starts with the word “Divorce”.

“There’s no turning back now.” The words are directed at Jarvis and Happy who are beginning to fold into Maria’s car. Tony feels hope burn his lungs, “If you come with us. There won’t be a job on your return.”

The pair smile fondly, look at Tony as though he’s mad. “Kinda counting on that, boss.” Happy speaks first, grinning wildly and Tony has a moment to realise that this chaotic household was difficult for them too. He doesn’t have long before he hears the whine of an oh-so familiar engine, heart in his mouth.

There’s a Chevy burning rubber down the road to them, driver wearing his military issue cap low across his head. As it rumbles ever closer Tony can feel his heart uptick in response, feels his feet moving without needing told towards the car as it pulls up and cuts the engine. The driver steps out, and it feels like a piece of deja vu, feels like when Tony first caught his gaze on him. But now he’s here, and he’s not going away, and they are going to be together. His heart sings, free and beautiful and so happy he could burst with it.

“Hello bond of mine.” Tony speaks first, watches as his beloved smiles slow and easy and full of joy. He accepts the hug when it comes, steps into Steve’s arms as easy as breathing, finds the hollow of his neck like it was made for Tony’s chin. He lets it enfold him for a minute, soaks it in, before finding Steve’s mouth and covering it with his. He doesn’t care if the others have turned away, just needs this affirmation that he’s doing the right thing. Needs Steve’s arms around him and his love encompassing him to stand before him.

“Hey T.” Steve says, “You ready?”

Tony doesn’t know what he means, but he knows he’s ready. He’s ready for now, ready for tomorrow, ready for the days after and the months and years that span out ahead of them in glorious technicolour. “Yeah baby.” He smiles, really means it, lets it spread across his face, “Lets go change the world together.”

The laugh Maria graces them with from the car across the drive is light enough to float through the air.

**Author's Note:**

> The symbol Steve and Tony have is the Celtic Triskele or Triskelion. This symbol has a variety of different meanings, but it most commonly signifies progress, revolution and completion. Also power-intellect-love. Take your pick, whatever you think suits our lovely boys the best.
> 
> Please do drop a comment, or find me on [tumblr](https://eachxnn.tumblr.com) to talk about our favourite super husbands.


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